


the mezzanine view

by auvelli



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Major Miwa, Author vs. the many ways you can refer to Alisa as otherworldly, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Muse Alisa, Mutual Pining, The inherent sapphism of painting your crush's back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auvelli/pseuds/auvelli
Summary: There's a girl Miwa paints, sometimes.(A goddess divine and her beloved prophet.)
Relationships: Haiba Alisa/Kageyama Miwa
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	the mezzanine view

**Author's Note:**

> women [thumbs up emoji]
> 
> i've been dying to write smth miwalisa and had a spare sunday evening and thus this piece was born. i sincerely hope you enjoy.
> 
> (cw// figurative mentions of burning)

There’s a girl Miwa paints, sometimes.

Her skin is holographic; she watches silvers shift to baby blues to soft lilacs to gentle emeralds and back again. You move in the slightest and a new array of pigments will play itself across your eyesight. It keeps Miwa searching indefinitely for something to hold on to.

Her hair is dawn; not so much a time a day as it is a feeling. The way it falls with an innate grace over the delicate plains of her shoulders. It echoes the sensations of experiencing something new, something so pleasantly and overwhelmingly demanding.

Her smile — are there words?

Miwa replicates the curve a thousand times in her mind, scrawled across white pages, with acrylics on stretched canvases — but nothing can spur the feeling of falling in her chest quite like the real thing. Angelic, holy. Too graceful for Miwa’s eyes that can’t help but trace it in something like an anomalous form of worship.

Her laugh is cool watermelon on a torrid day. Her touch is forgiveness on a stray soul. Her presence is the twinkling of precious jewels in a glass case.

Alisa Haiba — Miwa comes to learn at age twenty-three with her heart beating away wistfully in the caverns between her ribs — is everything but real.

And how, oh how, the question haunts Miwa in a waking nightmare, can you capture something so unfairly divine with your own two mortal hands?

She doesn’t know. She simply doesn’t think she’ll ever know.

-

“I don’t think you can,” Alisa says, a little unsure.

Miwa considers it, tilts her head in time with a sip of her cinnamon dolce latte that dances bittersweet across her palette.

“I think I can.”

“You’re going to have to, now” she laughs a little airily into her palm before settling her chin on top of her knuckles, looking towards Miwa with eyes that gleam a little too warmly for her already burning figure.

“Yeah,” Miwa concedes. “It’ll be fine.”

“I could just come by Thursday, instead.” Alisa starts to suggest, “Your paper is more important.”

And it’s really not, Miwa thinks. It’s not even for one of her more interesting classes, but it’s still a paper and her profesor will still be expecting a completed hard copy on her desk by 8 A.M. sharp tomorrow morning, hence the original question ‘ _Do you think I can finish a 2k word essay in a night?’_

Miwa shakes her head. “I have plenty of time.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so, thank you,” she claims with a grin that Alisa meets with a smaller smile of her own.

The sudden gentle pattering of rain against the cafe window catches their attention. There’s a brief silent moment as they watch the pavement outside darken in sporadic spots.

“Oh,” Alisa lets out a breath. “I forgot my umbrella.”

Miwa takes this as a cue to dig into her small backpack, ruffling around for a second to retrieve a closed umbrella adorning multi-colored paw prints.

“Fear not, dear Alisa.”

This had sounded good, valiant even, in theory. However in practice, it’s abundantly clear that Miwa’s umbrella is intended for one person and one person only. They link elbows in an attempt to keep close, shuffling shoulder to shoulder as they take familiar steps towards Miwa’s apartment.

“Sorry,” Alisa says as they walk, “I didn’t think it would rain so soon.”

Miwa’s grip on the umbrella tightens as she shakes her head, distantly caught up in the way warmth creeps like lovesick vines over where their arms press together.

“It’s fine.” And it is. More than fine. The proximity is only a little suffocating, although Miwa can only assume that has less to do with Alisa and more to do with Alisa. Wait.

 _A mess, Miwa, you’re a mess,_ her head provides. And yes, you’re probably right.

Because when you’re arm and arm with Aphrodite herself while rain drizzles steadily around you, some part of you can’t help but wish things were different, that a too-small-umbrella wasn’t the occasion, that you could maybe hold Aphrodite without being ashamed.

But instead, reality presents itself in the form of a white door with _386_ displayed in even silver toned numbering. Miwa shuts her umbrella, holding the door open for Alisa before trailing her inside.

They’ve been here a handful of times before, and all for the same purpose: art. They create art together. Or rather, Alisa exists with her unreal beauty and Miwa struggles to capture it in a way that could be presented as an offering instead of an insult. It’s a precarious cycle, but as long as Alisa doesn’t mind, Miwa will run it over and over again.

“What’s the agenda today,” Alisa says, half through a yawn as she stretches her arms upward.

Miwa grabs a sketch book and a small checkered pencil bag before hopping onto a worn wooden stool. She traces Alisa’s figure and considers.

“I don’t know.”

“Feeling uninspired?”

 _No, never with you,_ the thought crosses her mind.

“Try discouraged,” Miwa says instead.

Alisa hums, wandering idly as though she’s exploring the space around her for the first time all over again. Even her movements now are unintentionally graceful.

Her hand ghosts the set of tubes sitting in a neglected line on one of Miwa’s shelves. She picks one at random and takes a moment to read it before turning with raised eyebrows.

“You have body paints?”

Miwa’s heart drops. In what? Anticipation? Fear? Excitement?

“I do.”

Alisa’s smile goes sly. “If you don’t have any better ideas,” she trails off playfully.

Maybe it’s a combination of all three, Miwa considers as it begins to press through her veins, sudden and demanding.

“I don’t,” she responds.

“Then you should make me the art,” Alisa proposes.

 _You are already art,_ Miwa thinks. _The gods took the time to paint your features to perfection, and I would be a fool to ruin their creation._

But how could she say no?

Miwa summons all her strength to keep her eyes to her brushes as she hears the rustling of clothes from the other side of the room. It’s not until Alisa signals with a soft _okay_ that she picks her head up and turns around.

And it’s not much, really, but the smooth expanse of Alisa’s back sings chorus tunes to Miwa’s sight. It is truly an empty canvas in every sense of the word, and yet simultaneously so much _more._ The subtle definition of shoulder blades, the center dip that leads into the waistband of her jeans, the incline of her waist on heavenly display. Miwa thinks anything she puts onto the skin will only serve to taint it. The confidence that laces itself through Alisa’s expression as she turns her head to look back at her tells her to try.

Miwa approaches the stool where Alisa is perched, her hand reaching out by instinct but hesitating only centimeters away.

“May I?”

Alisa nods. Her platinum blonde locks that have since been strung up in a quick bun bob as she turns her head back towards the front, away from Miwa.

Miwa’s hand traces the lines, traces Alisa’s skin, so unfairly soft to the touch. Like touching a cloud, if that cloud felt like how younger you thought clouds should feel like until you learned that they’re just tiny water droplets. Miwa feels it with that same child-like curiosity, that unintentional ignorance.

“What are you going to paint?” Alisa asks, and Miwa smiles. She lets it spread a little further across her face, taking comfort in the fact that the other can’t see it.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, I see,” Alisa utters, but not without a chuckle. The vibrations of it ripple against Miwa’s palm. She pulls it away like she’s been burnt.

Distantly, she thinks she has.

Burnt by Alisa and all her grace, the thought persists as she begins to mix shades on her palette. Smiles burnt into memories, voice burnt onto the CD that spins on her heart. Beauty burnt onto the backs of eyelids, haunting her all hours of the day.

No matter how close Alisa is — Miwa laments as her brush makes contact with skin and Alisa takes in a sharp inhale, muttering a soft _it’s cold_ — no part of her feels close enough to have. Not an elbow interlocked with her own, not a back under Miwa’s brushstrokes. None of it.

But god, does Miwa _want._

“Hey, Miwa,” Alisa asks sometime, maybe hours after Miwa’s started. Miwa only hums an acknowledgement, still working in quiet diligence. “Why art?”

Miwa, for once, doesn’t have to think about it. “I couldn’t see myself being happy doing anything else.”

“I respect that,” She sighs, and her shoulders sink in the slightest. “You do seem happiest, making art.”

“Oh?” Miwa hesitates for a moment.

“Yes,” Alisa continues, “You get so relaxed. Focused, but relaxed. And- and it’s like you have the world in your hands when you paint. Like you’re determined to get it all on the canvas.”

Miwa’s heart skips a beat, it taps in her ears like a smooth pebble bouncing along the serene surface of a lake. Her tongue darts out to her lips before she speaks. “Maybe it’s because my model sets such high expectations.”

“Me? I haven’t said a word about it,” Alisa says and Miwa can hear the frown in her voice.

“You didn’t have to,” she counters, and before Alisa can push for further elaboration Miwa steps back and lets out a steady exhale. “I think I’m done.”

“Really?” Any trace of confusion in her voice has been wiped, instead her figure straightens and her tone adopts an edge of excitement. “Take a picture.”

Unknowing to Alisa, Miwa had already plucked her phone from her pocket, pickily fiddling with the camera to ensure the other sees it in optimal quality. When she passes it up to Alisa, she holds her breath.

 _Wow,_ Alisa lets out. A field of sunflowers, with somewhat of an angelic being looming above, gentle, smiling. All across smooth, even skin. All done with a considerate hand.

“You did all that just now?”

“Why would I lie?”

Alisa laughs again, that damned sound dripping like honey in Miwa’s ears. Though she’s careful not to peer over too far, Miwa can see Alisa zoom in on different details, shaking her head lightly.

“Miwa,” she starts, softly, “You’re incredible, you know that?”

 _“I’m_ incredible,” she parrots, half questioning, half incredulous.

“Yes, you.”

“You really think that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Alisa turns her head to frown at her.

“Because,” Miwa lets out a shaky exhale, “I think, you are the most unfairly incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Alisa’s jaw falls for a second. She shakes her head before speaking.

“I don’t even _do_ anything.”

“You do everything, Alisa,” Miwa’s brows furrow. “Even more to me. You’re everything and-”

She hesitates when she realizes her words are snowballing faster than she can stop them. Alisa turns on the stool, three quarters of the way, looking at Miwa with a newfound fearlessness.

“-And I’m a little in love with you for it,” she finishes, lets the words permeate the air with a thick cloud of tension, a too real cloud of honesty.

Alisa’s eyes widen. She stands up, gingerly, the pink of her lips curling gently upwards. A hand ghosts itself to Miwa’s cheeks as she stands stark still, eyelashes fluttering as the palm spreads coolness across her features.

And Alisa comes in close, so temptingly close. The closest she’s ever been, feeling close enough to have. To love. To _kiss._

A breath catches somewhere in Miwa's throat. Alisa looks into her eyes, her gaze flicks down to Miwa’s lips once, twice, before she sighs.

“Oh Miwa…”

Miwa chases the syllables, leans forward until she can catch them at their source, until she can kiss lips she’s only ever felt on canvas, on paper.

Alisa holds her by the sides of her face, she keeps things docile, keeps things sweet. This — like the rest of her Miwa realizes — seems so unreal. A half nude goddess in her living room with Miwa’s painting across her back, hands upon Miwa’s cheeks, lips moving with Miwa’s own. She reaches her own hands out, placing them gingerly upon Alisa’s waist, careful not to touch paint that’s still drying in some spots.

It’s strikingly quiet, and yet there’s a buzzing in Miwa’s ears that sounds something like the distant drizzling of rain, like the strumming of cherubs, like the ever so present sound of Alisa exhaling through her nose, and soon after the gentle release of lips.

Alisa doesn't go far, only just enough to be able to look into her eyes again. “You only love me a little?” she questions at a whisper, almost atop of Miwa's lips. 

“No,” Miwa says, just as quiet. “You're my wildest dreams and my biggest nightmare and you're everything I've wanted.”

Alisa smiles, laughs a little, even. “Cheesy." 

"Will that be an issue for you?"

"No," their lips meet again, slow but chaste. Something like testing the water before taking a dive. Something like a promise, a declaration of devotion. "Not at all." 

-

_(A goddess divine and her beloved prophet.)_

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading ! i, as always, very much appreciate any and all comments/kudos <3  
> you can find me on [twitter,](https://twitter.com/new_lei01) till next time.


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